


A Message in Las

by Dangsoo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Mystery, new villain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:57:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangsoo/pseuds/Dangsoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mangled hands are turning up all over London - one pair a day. John and Sherlock get onto the case after it suddenly becomes personal - a set of hands is found on Baker Street. Delving deeper, the two companions uncover a dark conspiracy, until the unthinkable happens - John is kidnapped, and the only clue Sherlock has is a broken lampshade and a single drop of blood. <br/>No JohnLock</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 221B Baker Street

**A Message in Las**

Chapter 1 - 221B Baker Street

The chilly, bright morning sun shone a dusty beam of light through the half drawn curtains of the living room in 221B Baker Street, casting a harsh beam across the carpeted floor. It was calm and quiet in the room currently occupied by the World’s only Consulting Detective, Sherlock Homes, and his greatest companion; Dr. John Watson, a retired army medic. John was settled in his usual armchair, the Union Flag cushion nestled into his lower back. He folded the newspaper he had just finished browsing with a rustle, and dropped it unceremoniously onto his lap. Reaching over to the coffee table, he retrieved his half drunk cup of tea and sipped it, glancing into the cold morning sky through the window. There were no clouds, just an expanse of harsh blue. Sherlock swished his silk dressing gown around himself as he stood and walked barefoot into the kitchen. He scooped the now empty cup of tea from John’s hand as he passed and slid both onto the side by the kettle, before plopping two teabags into them and switching it on. Its bubbling roar began to crescendo as Sherlock sat himself down at the table strewn with various scientific paraphernalia and began to prepare a slide from a large clump of hair currently resting in the lid of a petri dish. The kettle clicked off, the steam rising high, and Sherlock promptly ignored it. Glancing over, John sighed, slung the paper onto the coffee table, and went to prepare the tea. He left a cup with Sherlock, before fetching his Laptop and reseating himself. He lifted the lid, and the familiar sound of fingers tapping across keys filled the space. 

Sherlock reached for a pipette and a pair of scissors. He snipped off a few strands from the lump of dark curly locks and dropped them into a test tube, before submerging them in a clear liquid. He swirled it, then reached for a small bottle full of deep yellow solution. He gently added a few drops and watched as the liquid changed to a deep purple, concealing the hair. He hummed and replaced the test tube on a rack beside him. Reaching for his scissors again, he snipped another piece off and dropped it into a clean tube, the only other sound permeating the room being the erratic rhythm of fingers on keyboard. John stopped typing for a moment and leaned back into his chair, reading the screen in front of him. Glass clinked together in the kitchen. John reached for his cup of tea and sipped it. Just as he was about to touch the keyboard again, a knock sounded from the living room door. “Woop woop” Mrs Hudson trilled, stepping into the room.

“Morning” John greeted her pleasantly, looking up from his laptop. “How are you today?”

“Oh I’m fine. Hip is playing up a bit” She patted the offending limb as she entered the kitchen. Her shoulders dropped at the array of chemistry equipment strewn across the surfaces. “Oh, Sherlock! What a mess! Is that hair?” Sherlock nodded, not looking up. Mrs Hudson sighed, defeated, and grabbed a cloth from the sink. She held it up to Sherlock. “Is this one safe?” Glancing up, Sherlock nodded again and then returned to his experiments. The long suffering landlady began to wipe down the surfaces in the kitchen, popping on the radio as she did so. It was tuned, as always, to BBC Radio 4. As she began to gather up the empty mugs strewn around the kitchen and living room, the chimes for the localised 10 O’Clock News began. She turned up the volume a little before filling the sink. 

“This is the BBC London News at 10 O’Clock. The headlines: MP’s come under scrutiny after proposed pay rises, London’s Mayor expresses condolences to the family of the latest oyster card bicycle fatality, TV Chef revealed to be victim of fraud, and our top story this morning: A second pair of hands has been discovered in Leicester Square” 

Sherlock’s head twitched slightly to the side as he paused in his experiment to listen to the radio over the sound of Mrs Hudson washing up. 

“A second pair of hands has been discovered hanging from a tree in Leicester Square earlier this morning. The hands, like the ones discovered yesterday in a park in Hackney, were hung by wire to a branch. No bodies have been found for either. Our correspondent is on the scene.” The voice switched genders. 

“At about 5 O’Clock this morning, a local resident discovered the hands hanging from the tree in the centre of the square. As of yet, we do not know who they belong to. DNA tests are currently being undertaken at St Bartholomew’s Hospital.”

Mrs Hudson put a wet mug on the drying board. “Awful business that. What is the world coming to these days, mm?” John hummed an agreement from the sitting room as he turned away from his laptop. 

“What do you think, Sherlock?” John asked. Sherlock breathed out as he leaned away from his experiment. 

“Not enough information to make a deduction. It’s too adult for Lestrade though. He’ll come running soon.” John rolled his eyes and returned to his laptop. His fingers brushed the keypad as he navigated to his inbox to read his new emails. He binned the usual spam, lingering over an advert for a seedy looking prize draw to win £1000, before deleting it too. Coming to the end of the little emboldened list, he reached a sender of whom he didn’t recognise. He opened it, expecting more spam, and read the first line. His mouth dropped open. He leaned in to read more intently. 

 

_Hello John! How are you these days my friend?_

_Do you remember me? It’s Lieutenant Arthur Pike from the 5th Regiment. I’m back from tour and I’m here for the next year._

_I know I haven’t kept in touch with you, but I think I have an excuse. I’m in London for a few months before moving back up to be closer to my parents. It would be excellent if we could meet and re-live a bit of the old times - blast from the past and all. I’ve got a bit less hair than you will remember and most likely a few more wrinkles._

_I’ve seen you in the papers recently - teamed up with that detective Sherlock Holmes have you? I’m interested to see how you, an ex army doctor teamed up with a private detective! I’m full of questions. I’m sure your life has taken a rather drastic turn - I can imagine it’s a lot of sitting around in front of laptops._

_I’ll talk with you soon I’m sure,_

_Art._

 

John smiled at the short but meaningful words on the screen in front of him. He couldn't help but chuckle at the completely incorrect assumption about his detective life. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Selecting the reply icon, he tapped out a message on the screen with a suggested date and his mobile number for easier communication, then pressed the lid shut on his laptop and stood, walking towards Sherlock and Mrs Hudson in the kitchen. 

“I just got an email from one of my oldest and closest friends in the army. He’s back in London - I’ll admit I’m more used to seeing him in uniform than plain clothes. It’s going to be odd meeting him.” 

Mrs Hudson turned away from the sink and smiled. “That’s wonderful John! I’m sure you’ll still get on like a house on fire.” She placed the last mug on the draining board and pulled the plug from the sink. Drying her hands on a tea towel, she dropped it onto the kitchen side between the kettle and an empty glass beaker. “I’ll be going now. I’ll see you later boys!” John smiled at her as she walked away and back to her own flat downstairs. Sherlock had returned to his experiment and did not bid her goodbye. Nobody expected him to however. 

Leaning against the kitchen surfaces, he watched the world’s greatest Consulting Detective cut up strands of hair into little pieces and push them into test tubes. 

“Any luck?” John asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied, not looking up at John. “She’s not who we have been told. I knew that already, but I’ve proved it.” John waited for an explanation, but none came. 

“Are you going to tell me?” 

He tapped the microscope. “Pollen.” He pointed to the test tube full of dark purple liquid. “Starch.” He pointed to another full of a white precipitate. “Lipids. Pointing to a little beaker with purple liquid, he said “Protein.”  Gesturing at another tube with a red solution, he said ‘Lignin, of course.” 

“Of course...” John sighed.

‘There’s also ash, rust, and soot. This woman is not a council worker in Elephant and Castle. She works on a farm in Essex.” 

John’s eyebrows raised. “How do you know?”

“I just told you.”

“No, Sherlock. You showed me some test tubes.”

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. “Pollen - more specifically, pollen from rapeseed plants. An unusually high density of ash and soot - She’s been working with large desil engines. Traces of London Clay. Not usually seen in an office job, is it? Rust from old corrugated iron buildings. So, where is there rust and high amounts of rapeseed pollen? On a rape farm. We are still on the London Clay, so where is there a high density of rape farms grown on London Clay? Essex.” 

John shook his head. “Once again, your mind just baffles me, Sherlock.” Sherlock smirked. 

“As does yours to me.” He picked up his phone and texted Lestrade his findings and instructions on whom to arrest, before getting up from the table and padding barefooted into the living room. He picked up his violin. 

The rest of the day passed calmly onwards with little interruption. Having finished a case, Sherlock allowed his transport a small lunch with John of quiche and salad in front of the television, before returning to his violin. He played into the evening, John sitting companionably with him. John left later to meet with his girlfriend, and Sherlock continued to play late into the blackness of the winter night.

Morning came once again in 221B Baker Street, and a frost had settled in the night on the trees and grass, doors and pavement. A little was jostled off as the front door opened and John appeared, lugging a black rubbish bag to be dumped in the bins beside the townhouse. As he stepped off the last stair in his slippers, careful not to slip on the frost, he looked up at the grey sky. About to glance back down onto the road, he caught something in the corner of his eyes. He dropped the rubbish bag as he took in the sight. Stunned, pale and horrified, he dashed back into the flat, the rubbish forgotten on the steps. 

“Sherlock!” He grabbed Sherlock’s arm and dragged him out of his armchair and down the stairs. 

“John, wha-” He hissed at the cold air that hit him as he was pulled into the chilly street. John pointed at the tree outside the flat, his hand trembling a little. 

  
2 dismembered hands, hard, pale and frosty hung from the lowest branch of the tree growing in the square in the pavement. Dried, cold blood crusted the edges of the cuts just below the wrist. The nails and base of the fingers were blackened. Bloodied wire pushed through the middle of the hands held them together, which was then wrapped tightly around the branch. Frost had developed on the wire, the spikes forming icy white spires which looked sharp to the touch. 

However this was not which had shocked Watson so much. Cut deeply into the hands, almost to the bone were the letters:

 

221B.

 

 


	2. Richard Nance

John sank down into his armchair and sighed heavily. Why can’t my mornings be normal? He pondered to himself as Sherlock dropped down into the wider leather armchair opposite, elbows on knees, with his fingers laced together and pressed against his lips. Sherlock hummed as John watched him sink deeper inside of himself, thinking. John stood again and walked to the window, peering down at the street where a small troupe of police were still working on tidying up after this morning’s events. He watched as a female officer rolled up the last of the police tape blocking the road. It all seemed a bit too un-shocking at times, John thought. Never mind.  
He went to fill the kettle. 

The police had come very quickly after John had called Lestrade, quickly blocking the road and gathering evidence from both John and Sherlock, much to his obvious distaste. According to him, they hadn’t asked a single correct question, as per usual, and were completely useless in the solving of this case. By this time, Sherlock had already gathered all the information he needed, after all, and had started to work on piecing the information together. Lestrade didn’t even try to tell him that as he was a part of this case, he shouldn’t be working on it. He knew it would just be wasted breath. 

As John dropped two tea bags into mugs and filled them with water from the just boiled kettle, Sherlock’s phone buzzed next to him. John opened the fridge, dodging the petri dish with something deep purple growing in it, and grabbed the almost empty milk bottle. As he shut the door, Sherlock looked up at John.

‘The fingerprints and DNA are from a corner shop owner in Harlow called Basir Sahaa. He was filed as missing by his wife a week before his hands turned up on our doorstep.’ Sherlock stood and took the tea John proffered to him as he returned to the living room. John sat, and sipped.

A moment of silence ensued, as John filed through his memory. ’I don’t know anyone with that name. Do you Sherlock?’ Sherlock shook his head. ‘Then, why him?’ 

‘I don’t know at the moment. The letters carved into them was obviously a calling card, though. It could just be a random set of hands, but I’m not sure why the person who is doing this would bother going to all the trouble of cutting off people’s hands if they didn’t link up somehow. Unless they wanted to show off of course. But what’s the point?’

John hummed and nodded, repressing a smirk as he sipped his tea, recalling all the times at which Sherlock had blurted out unnecessary deductions to do just that, more than once leaving him with a bruised face as the person listening became more and more frustrated with the babbling sleuth. 

Sherlock sat back in his chair. ‘Are there no links either of us have to him at all? What about the corner shop where he worked, or Harlow?’ 

John put his mug on the corner table next to him. ‘I went to secondary school in Harlow, but I don’t see how that links in with anything. I only went there for a year anyway. My dad got a new job and the family moved to Hertfordshire.’ Sherlock hummed once, stood, and picked up his violin. John, realising he would not be doing much conversing with his friend and flatmate for the next few hours, scooped up the empty mugs dotted around the room, popped them into the sink, then shrugged on his coat, announced to Sherlock he was going to buy some much needed food, and stepped out into the now warmer daytime, the sun having melted all of the frost which had formed the night before. 

-

The next morning brought another news report on the radio, another set of hands, and a text from Lestrade. As much as he realised this would always happen in cases when he was involved with Sherlock, John still resented the lack of time to eat or drink anything except half a cup of coffee before he was forced to get into a taxi by his friend the detective. The taxi journey was slow; despite Sherlock’s regular injection of alternative directions into the cabbie’s route, there was no escaping Central London rush hour traffic. By the time the taxi pulled up beside the crime scene in central Greenwich, John’s stomach was protesting loudly at the lack of any kind of sustenance since he had got up. He ignored it however as they ducked under the blue and white striped police tape. Sherlock turned up his coat collars as he strutted forward into the midst of the organised chaos of police, John following closely behind him. Sherlock quickly located Lestrade. 

‘Ah, Sherlock. Right.’ He led them over to the scene of the crime - another set of hands, this time cut off above the wrist, and hung with wire from the lowest branch of a tall tree. ‘A woman who works as an early morning cleaner in one of the offices round here found them this morning as she came into work. The owner is male caucasian.’ Sherlock nodded and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small retractable magnifying glass, which he used to quickly inspect the disembodied limbs strung to the tree, before moving off and inspecting the surrounding area in the same quick, calculated manner. John stepped up and inspected the hands. 

‘Well, I’d say the owner is probably no older than 40, judging by the wrinkles. They’ve probably been here for a good few hours based on the flexibility - they're entering rigor mortis.’ John looked back to Sherlock, who had just stood from inspecting the base of the tree. He put his magnifying glass back into his pocket. 

‘Whoever this man is, he works in one of these offices.’ He swung his hand out behind him, gesturing to the large group of tall office buildings behind him. ‘High up office job - he does very little handwriting; there are no marks on the hand of holding a pen and no dirt under his nails, but he doesn't do much typing either - his wrists do not have the typical slightly twisted wrist bone from holding hands over laptop keys for long periods, so he had a secretary. Was there a wedding ring?’ He turned to Lestrade, who shook his head. ‘Well, its either been removed then when the hands were cut, or he is very recently divorced after being married for a long time.’ He turned away, and pulled out his phone. ‘Has a taste for antique designer watches, too.’ Tapping out a text message, he said, ‘I want to take these to the lab.’ Lestrade sighed, and agreed to give up his only evidence to the tall dark man. 

John watched Sherlock pour over his microscope in the lab at St Bartholomew’s Hospital. He had already identified who the hands belonged to, exactly how long they had been there, with what utensil they had been severed with, and the properties of the wire holding them together, so John was baffled as to what he was looking at now. He knew better to intervene, however, preferring to eat a late lunch and exchange small talk with Molly who was also watching him work on her break. With as much intensity as Sherlock conducted his experiments, the detective jumped up, cleaned away his experiments and grabbed his coat, gesturing for John to follow, and uttering a quick goodbye to Molly, who stuttered slightly and waved a little awkwardly as the two men left the room through the swinging double doors. Hopping into a taxi, Sherlock shut the plastic barrier dividing the driver from the passengers and began to explain what he had deduced.

‘So the hands we are currently working on belong to a high flying businessman who works in the HSBC tower in Greenwich, by the name of Richard Nance, though I suspect he might be involved in more than just that.’ John raised an eyebrow. ‘Everyone in high business has links, John. I’m waiting for Lestrade to send me more details of other companies he’s associated with.’ John nodded.  
‘The hands were cut crudely using some sort of reasonably large smooth edged knife, and tied up with basic lead wire. I couldn't find any sort of poison or any other foreign substances in the tissue or blood.’ 

‘Right,’ John said. ‘Well that doesn't really help us work out why whoever it is keeps doing this.’

‘No, not yet. We are just going to have to wait for more hands.’ John sighed deeply. He hated it, but he knew Sherlock was right. There just wasn't enough to go on. Though… 

‘Sherlock, doesn't this feel a bit like the case before with Moriarty and the Greenwich Pips?’ 

Sherlock smiled. ‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’ 

Just then, Sherlock’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Unlocking it, he read the text he had just received. ‘It’s from Lestrade - more information about Mr Nance.’ He continued reading, and then stopped, his eyes lingering on a section of words. ‘Interesting!’ 

‘What?’

‘Our friend Nance here had a lot of fingers in a lot of pies, but he also has links to the Government - his uncle is a long standing member of the House of Lords. Here’s the key though - he’s a member of the Diogenes Club, and regularly attends private parties with the high powers of the land.’ 

‘So perhaps Mycroft knows him?’ 

‘I would be surprised if Mycroft wasn't keeping a close eye on him and all his associates. One thing my brother is good at is watching people; especially anyone with any sort of power.’

The two friends alighted the taxi when it arrived at Baker Street and went inside. Sherlock removed his coat and scarf after sending a text to Mycroft demanding that he come and divulge his secrets about Richard Nance, before picking up his violin, and plucking the strings rhythmically. John glanced up at the clock and started. 

‘I Have to go, Sherlock. I’m meeting Stamford and my old friend Art.’ He waited for a reply, to which none came. ‘Bye; I’ll be back later this evening.’ Sherlock only heard the letterbox on the front door clack as John pulled it shut behind him. 

-

Mycroft pressed the doorbell on the right hand side of the front door to 221B Baker Street. He counted exactly 1 minute and 30 seconds before it opened to the face of Mrs Hudson, who smiled at him and stepped back to allow the Holmes brother in. He ascended the stairs, the sound of Sherlock’s violin gradually becoming louder as he came closer to the living room of Sherlock’s flat. Sherlock put down the instrument as he entered, then got up and put on the kettle. Mycroft sat himself down in John’s armchair, resting his cane next to him on the armrest of the squashy piece of furniture. Soon, a cup of tea was handed to him, and a tray with a teapot placed down onto the coffee table which Sherlock had pulled between the two armchairs. 

‘So, what is it?’ Mycroft drawled, taking a sip of his tea. 

‘Richard Nance.’ Sherlock replied, lacing his hands together. ‘He’s the owner of the hands found this morning.’ 

‘Oh, that one. Not very interesting, really. He’s too cocky for my taste. Very new money, and proud of it. I’ve only spoken to him a few times; I much prefer his Uncle, Lord Deben.’ 

‘Anything of importance?’ 

‘Not really. I’ve been keeping an eye on him, naturally, but he has a very low level of surveillance. Still…’ Mycroft sat back, and took another sip. ‘He donates a lot of money to conservations and such. A member of Greenpeace, if I recall. He was very passionate about the Wildlife Conservation Society charity; used to do speeches and host charity auctions and such at some of the corporate social events.’ 

Sherlock finished his tea and placed it down onto the table again, before pouring himself another cup and sloshing in some milk from the newly opened bottle John had bought earlier. He tapped his foot as he sifted through the information freshly added to the case and attempted to make some rudimentary links as to how the hands linked up so far. None came to mind. He ran his long, slender fingers through his dark curly locks, concentrating. Mycroft scoffed.

‘Are you going to tell me what you’ve deduced then or not, brother dear?’ Sherlock snapped back to reality with a jolt, and began to recall all he’d seen, heard, and deduced in the case so far.

-

John pushed his key into the lock on the front door later that evening and turned, opening the door. It was a bit harder than it should have been to locate where the key should be inserted. Maybe I should have left before that last pint… He had stayed much longer than he had expected, as Greg had turned up at the pub and joined them for the last couple of rounds. He walked up the stairs, holding the bannister, and took off his coat, glancing into the living room. Sherlock was there, violin in one hand, bow in the other. He glanced up, slightly dazed, as if he had been lost in a world of his own. John suspected he had been just that. 

‘You okay?’ He asked Sherlock.

‘Yes, yes.’ He replied quietly. ‘What time is it?’ 

John checked his watch. ‘It’s 10:10 pm.’

Sherlock looked surprised. ‘Are you sure? It was 7pm a few minutes ago.’ John shook his head at his absent friend. 

‘You do that quite a lot, you know.’

‘Really?’ 

John smiled and started the stairs towards his bedroom, before stopping on the third step. ‘Have something to eat before you sleep, Sherlock. There are some eggs in the fridge.’ There was no reply. John shook his head and continued up the stairs. He reached his bedroom, prepared himself for bed, and tucked himself under the covers. Just as he drifted off, he thought he might have heard the fridge door opening, and a pan being placed on the stove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait! I became busy... very busy.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter - I will try to update soon :)


	3. Heaven Trees

A Message in Las   
Chapter 3

John cracked his eyes open and rolled away from the light seeping through the curtains in his bedroom. He groaned as his hangover began to roll in as he came to his senses, and glanced at the electric alarm clock which was sitting on the side table. It was 9:00am. He was surprised Sherlock hadn't come and woken him up yet, seeing as they were on a case. The average mid-case wake up call was anywhere between 4:00am and 6:00am, depending on the importance of the deduction Sherlock had made in the night. He scanned the room, glancing at the small desk in the corner, hoping he’d had the foresight last night to leave himself a pint of water and a couple of paracetamol tablets. He hadn’t. Running his fingers through his straw coloured hair, he blinked owlishly, before swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing. His striped pyjama trousers grazed the floor slightly as he shuffled over to the dark stripy flannel dressing gown hanging on the back of his bedroom door and shrugged it on, before descending the stairs into the main flat. He bypassed the living room, instead taking the door straight into the kitchen and flicked the kettle on before shuffling towards the bathroom. The door clicked shut and the sound of running water filled the space. 

Sherlock’s head flicked up as he heard the kettle begin to boil and just caught the edges of John’s distinctive striped dressing gown disappear behind the bathroom door. The sound of the shower added itself to the roar of the kettle as Sherlock leaned back and stretched, his back clicking out of the curved posture he had held for the past however many hours. He held up his wrist in order to check his watch and raised his eyebrows at the time. The morning was practically gone! Had he known, he would've woken up his flatmate hours ago. He needed someone to talk to, to deduce with. His skull, sitting the mantelpiece next to a red leather-bound book on the works of Plato and his ivory letter knife, wasn't quite enough at the moment. He shut the lid of his laptop and stood, swiping his hands down his slim chest to attempt to remove some of the creases in his shirt, despite knowing it was a lost cause. The kettle in the cluttered kitchen clicked off, and Sherlock began the age old process of making a morning cuppa for himself and his shorter friend.   
John came from the bathroom drying behind his ear with a small hand towel, noting the steaming cup of tea stewing by the kettle. He grabbed the teaspoon resting on top of a ramekin full of used teabags, and added the one floating in his cup to the pile before sloshing in milk and stirring until the colour was just right. He took the cup with him as he went back upstairs to get dressed, smiling briefly at his flatmate who was watching him from the long leather sofa against the wall, still in the same clothes he wore last night. Typical, he thought as he began to ascend the stairs towards his bedroom. Once again, he doesn’t sleep a wink. Sherlock stepped over the coffee table and entered the bathroom, brushing his shaggy black curls off his face with his long, pale fingers. 

By the time Sherlock had stepped from his bedroom, newly showered and dressed in his classic black suit trousers and tight purple shirt, his grey socks padding across the kitchen lino, John had made himself comfortable in his chair and was watching the end of the morning news. He looked over his shoulder at Sherlock and simply nodded. Sherlock stood behind John’s armchair and leaned on the top of the backrest, focusing on the television set. The news anchor was questioning the reporter at the scene of the next set of hands. Of course, thought Sherlock, no-one has the common sense to ask the right questions, as usual, or see anything of importance at all. The camera panned over the edges of the scene of the crime, catching Donovan and Lestrade in conversation next to a police car. Lestrade pulled out his phone and dialled a number as the shot moved past; Sherlock went to his mobile which was sitting next to his laptop on the desk. John raised an eyebrow at him, and Sherlock smirked as his phone began to ring in his hand. 

‘Lestrade?’ Sherlock asked, his smug attitude visibly laced through his deep baritone. John just shook his head and turned towards the television, however his eyes stayed trained towards the sleuth now pacing up and down in front of the dark wood desk. His smirk stayed put, however. He curtly finished the conversation and ended the call, slipping his phone into his trouser pocket. ‘He wants us there as soon as possible, so obviously we will be there in an hour.’ John was visibly shocked.

‘What? Sherlock, are you feeling okay?’

Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘Why would that make any difference?’

John sighed and shook his head. ‘Of course. Transport.’

‘Exactly, John.’ Sherlock walked over to the kitchen table and sat himself down in front of his microscope. He grabbed a dish full of cubes of what looked suspiciously like finger, grabbed some small tongs and popped one onto the lid of a petri dish, before mashing it up and spreading a small sample onto a slide. John got up and joined Sherlock at the kitchen table.

‘That’s a finger from the hands you took yesterday, isn't it.’

‘Well observed John; you are becoming more astute day by day.’ 

John sighed heavily. ‘Where’s the rest of it?’

‘In the freezer.’ John’s eyes widened and he span around, pulling the freezer door open and opening the first, then second drawer. Nestled between a frosty box of fish fingers and a bag of sweetcorn was one of the hands, wrapped in a blue freezer bag and tied with a bag wrap. John lifted the offending item out with his index finger and thumb. 

‘Sher-‘ He stopped and gave up, realising it was a waste of breath. ‘Is this the reason we aren’t going to the scene as fast as possible?’ Sherlock simply nodded. John poked him in the shoulder. ‘Explain.’

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked up from his microscope. ‘Obviously I’m measuring the effect of the combination of frost and lead on cellular degeneration.’ John’s eyebrows knitted together, he pursed his lips, and he nodded.

‘Mmm. Interesting.’ 

Sherlock looked around at John, a pleased expression on his face. ‘It is, actually, for you see-‘ he stopped when he saw John’s face. ‘Sarcasm?’

‘Sarcasm.’ John returned to his squashy armchair, and Sherlock watched him go, his eyebrow raised. he looked back at his microscope and studied the pink-grey substance pressed between the slide and the cover slip, before writing down his findings on a small notepad. He sat back, popped a lid over the dish of finger cubes, then slung them unceremoniously into the fridge and washed his hands. His long strides took him to the coat rack, where he grabbed his coat, shoes and long scarf, then John’s jacket, which he threw at John. They left the building quickly, and hailed a cab, Sherlock texting Lestrade his estimated time of arrival. 

Lestrade saw the taxi pull up aside the crime scene and a dark, lanky man accompanied by a shorter, straw haired one emerge from the black cab. He strode over to them. ‘Took yer time, did you?’

‘Why yes, we did, actually. No need to rush.’ Sherlock drawled, before lifting the police tape and striding towards the next set of hands. John hung behind, shrugging apologetically at Lestrade, who just shook his head and lifted the tape for his friend. They walked over together. Sherlock was already finishing up. He looked at John and Greg. ‘Nothing much different from the last ones, really.’ He gestured towards the small pair of hands hung once again from a tree. ‘White female, single mother with twins. Currently unemployed. It’s all obvious, and all boring.’ Sherlock turned away. ‘What’s the point of bringing me to this one? You could have told me all that over a text.’ He looked at Lestrade and John, waiting for some sort of agreement. He frowned as none came.

John and Lestrade waited expectantly for an eruption, and, sure enough, it came. ‘Really?’ Sherlock groaned, lifted his hands into the air before pressing the heels of his palms into his forehead, an expression of frustrated despair gracing his features. The men didn’t bother defending themselves. Sherlock swung his arm towards the hands. ‘Obviously she’s a mother. Look at the substance underneath her nails! It’s yellow!’ Sherlock paused, waiting for the collective gasp of realisation. None came. Sherlock sighed, his shoulders lifting and dropping with the intake and exhalation of breath. ‘Crayons! She’s been scratching yellow crayon wax off the walls. 2 young twins? Those hands over there smell distinctly of child,’ Sherlock wrinkled his nose. ‘Its obvious she has more than one, but they are of a too similar age to be close siblings, so, twins. Unemployed? Well, that’s blatantly obvious. Her nails are stubby from chewing them with worry, and I seriously doubt she can afford a babysitter or a creche judging by the flakes of cheap paint in the crook of her thumb from using sub-standard pencils - commonly the ones found in job centres and betting shops. I think this woman is in debt, and has a bit of a gambling problem. But that one is more or less a guess, even though it’s right of course. Anyway;’ He turned to Lestrade. ‘Has the identity check come back on these yet? It should be easy, seeing as she is in the national housing support database.’ His expound was finished with an intake of breath and the collar of his coat being turned upwards. 

Lestrade blinked, then gruffly replied. ‘We should have the details within a couple of hours.’ Sherlock nodded, then gestured for John to follow, before leaving the scene. Lestrade sighed. ‘He’ll be right on everything, like always, the bloody git.’ John smirked in sympathy, before lifting a hand in goodbye, and following after his friend who was busy attempting to hail a taxi. He checked in his pockets to make sure he had enough change for the fare back. The London Underground, a small space filled with lots of people, was never a good experience with Sherlock Holmes, the man who couldn’t shut his mouth for toffee. He got in the black cab and shut the door. 

The journey back was met with mostly companiable silence, Sherlock thinking, and John watching the world go by from the window of the cab. John looked over at his flatmate. ‘So, do you have any ideas about what this person is trying to tell us yet?’ 

Sherlock shook his shaggy head. ‘Not yet. I still don't understand the significance of the people involved. Of course, they're all being strung from trees with the same wire in the same way. The only message we have been left is our flat number, and there seems to be little to no correlation at the moment as to where they are being hung, either. None of the people have ever seen or interacted with each other, and all of the people involved so far have never committed a crime, either.’

John hummed. ‘I see what you mean. There’s nothing we can see at the moment which links any of these people up. What are we looking for now?’

‘Some sort of correlation. There has to be something; something I’ve overlooked. I’ve asked for all of the files on everybody involved and photographs from all of the scenes. It’s time to get to work, John.’   
The cab arrived at Baker St, and Sherlock and John entered the flat, picking up the box of files from a cheerful Mrs Hudson before they ascended the stairs. ‘Are you working on the hands case, boys?’ She asked.

‘Yes,’ John replied. ‘Need to go over all of these to work out a correlation.’ 

Mrs Hudson nodded, handing the box to John, and glancing up to Sherlock as he stood part way up the stairs, waiting for him. ‘I won’t keep you. I’ll pop in later with some scones and tea.’

‘That would be lovely, Mrs Hudson.’ John smiled, and began to ascend the stairs up to 221B. 

Sherlock snatched the box away from John as he reached the top of the stairs, having already removed his coat and scarf. He hurried into the living room and dumped it onto the coffee table, before seating himself on the long sofa and tipping the files onto the low table. John entered the room and sat on the wooden chair at the desk. He watched Sherlock, waiting for an instruction. Sherlock handed him a fold out map of London. ‘Map on there where all the hands were found, and where the owner of them lives currently and works in both their current and previous jobs. Then tell me if the hands were found en-route, or in a different place entirely.’ John nodded, then picked up a highlighter and a pen. He spread the map out on the coffee table next to the box of files and Sherlock, then grabbed a file that his flatmate wasn't pouring over. He began to chart the relevant information. 

Hours later, the map had been stuck on the wall next to the photographs of the victims and their severed hands. The count made 5 so far, including the ones that were found this morning, which had turned out to be a young, unemployed single mother of twins, by the name of Leah Reed, who resided in a council flat next to Little Venice in Camden. John scoped up the plates that once housed Mrs Hudson’s scones (despite John’s efforts, Sherlock had not partaken), and the two empty mugs that had each held countless cups of tea over the course of the day. They had had so far no luck, despite scanning everything about the people involved, reading all the newspapers, and looking into their backgrounds and immediate family members. 

Sherlock had graduated to two nicotine patches. John sat himself in his armchair and watched as Sherlock had laid back on the sofa, passed his flattened hands together, and closed his eyes. John Grabbed the newspapers he’d picked up earlier that day, each with a front page headline about another mysterious limb appearing in London. The headlines varied in wittiness; The Guardian simply stating the obvious: Another pair of hands found in London Tree, while The Sun had opted for a more catchy title: Treemendous violence hits London streets once more! 

 

John read the articles over once again, mumbling each title as he did so, the papers rustling as he discarded them. Sherlock frowned and looked over at John, annoyed. ‘Will you shut up?!’ He said, frustration etched into his voice. John looked up as he threw another paper to the ground. Sherlock stared at John, who humphed and turned the page of his current newspaper, the huge headline at the front in full view to Sherlock from the sofa. Sherlock sat up suddenly, stepped over the table, and snatched the paper from John. 

‘Er, Sherlock!’ John said curtly. ‘I was reading -‘ He stopped as he saw the expression on Sherlock’s face.   
He had seen that one before. He was on the brink of something. Sherlock threw the paper aside and crouched down, spreading the other papers on the floor haphazardly out so all of the titles could be viewed. John watched Sherlock’s expression as he mumbled something inaudible, then jumped up to full height. ‘What?’ John asked. Sherlock grinned at him.

“Once again John, you have proved your worth.’ John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock gestured to all of the newspapers. ‘Trees. How can we have overlooked such a simple thing?’ 

John shook his head, confused. ‘But, they're just trees.’

Sherlock grinned. ‘Nothing ever is that simple, John.’ He gestured to all of the newspapers. ‘All of the pictures here are taken from further aback, unlike the ones we have from the Yard. Of course there isn't actually the tree itself in the images; just the hands. But in these… they’re all the same. Of course, I noticed, but those trees are the most common around London…’ Sherlock hit the side of his head with the heel of his hand. ‘How can I have been so unobservant?’ Sherlock grabbed his phone and entered a swift search. He looked up towards John. ‘They’re heaven trees, John.’

John raised an eyebrow. ‘So?’

‘They’re not native to the UK. They were brought in for aesthetic reasons, but, typical to the British way, we didn’t realise they're an extremely invasive and threatening plant until we introduced them fully. They’re very hard to remove, and - I’m sure you’ve noticed, as have I - in the summer, they smell rather unpleasant. They're one of the most common plants in London. They are, quite literally, everywhere.’ Sherlock went to the window and looked out down at the street below, at the young heaven tree growing just outside their door. 

‘But, Sherlock,’ John said, ‘that doesn’t help us in deducing a link between the people used.’

‘No, it doesn’t, but this is another message, John. The lead wire, the trees. They’re both dangerous. They invade; they poison.’   
Silence fell over the two, and Sherlock returned back to his previous position on the sofa against the wall. John realised that this time, there would be no response from the man if a question was posed to him. He could already see Sherlock sinking down into that endless brain of his. 

John didn’t bother telling Sherlock he was going out in a while to meet with his sister for dinner. He simply left a note on the kettle.


	4. A Long Wait

A Message in Las 

Chapter 4

 

Sherlock heard the door click open downstairs and he snapped out of his thoughts. He stretched his neck and shoulders before sitting up, listening to the rhythmic _tump tump_ of John’s shoed feet ascending the stairs to the living quarters of 221B Baker Street. He vaguely remembered John saying he was going out… or something like that. It didn’t matter. John entered the living room, straightening the ends of his knitted jumper over his jeans. He smiled at Sherlock as the sleuth quickly scanned him. _Japanese, no, Korean food. Looks more drained than before - Harry. He paid for dinner again and got the bus halfway back before walking the rest of the way._  

 ‘You okay?’ John asked. Sherlock nodded, watching him move into the kitchen. Speaking at the moment was unnecessary. ‘Harry is fine; thanks for asking by the way.’ John said from the kitchen, turning on the tap and filling a plastic washing up bowl with hot water. ‘Have you eaten or drunk anything since I left?’ 

 ‘No, Harry isn’t fine, because you walked home. Food is not necessary at the moment.’ Sherlock said, as he stood and hopped on top of the sofa set against the wall, in front of the map. ‘Set of hands found _here,’_ he prodded a finger firmly onto the paper, ‘are the property of a shop owner in Harlow, name of Basir Sahaa.’ He pointed to another position on the map. ‘Mycroft’s associate Richard Nance’s hands were found here, and these ones,’ He jabbed his index finger, ’are the ones we found today, property of a Miss Leah Reed.’ 

 John didn’t even bother asking how Sherlock knew he had walked home, or how that coincided with the wellbeing of Harry (who indeed, wasn’t fine, but he knew Sherlock didn’t actually care), instead choosing to quietly continue washing up the mugs and cutlery while Sherlock deduced out loud. It was, as John had quite aptly coined, time to be a skull. The time to tell Sherlock the interesting information he learned from Harry would come at a later point. Sherlock continued his liturgy regardless. 

 ‘I’ve been working on this all day and I still can’t seem to find a tangible correlation between the people who’ve been found. They are completely unrelated, they have never met, they don’t hail from the same area. They all have different religions, ethnicities, and professions. I don’t understand…’ he jumped down from the sofa and began to almost feverishly pace the room, hands running through his hair, his silk dressing gown swishing behind him each time he turned in the small space. ‘I don’t understand! I must be missing something. Why would a person, assuming it is one person and not a group which is only slightly statistically less likely, go to all the trouble of hacking off people’s hands, tying them to only one species of tree in places specifically picked to be in security camera blind spots, and then hide the leftovers and modify the crime scene so they are completely untraceable if the victims weren’t linked somehow?’

 John took the advantage of a pause for breath in Sherlock’s monologue to interject. ‘How do you know these people are dead? You’re describing them as leftovers!.’ 

 Sherlock waved away John’s comment as he turned to look at John at the sink. ‘I had Molly look at the nature of the severs at the morgue. They were cut slowly with something blunt as I suspected, suggesting that the victim was either killed beforehand, or died of huge blood loss afterwards.’ He looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I suppose one could cauterise the wound, but even so it is unlikely. The people in this case are just collateral, after all. It would just be extra hassle to not dispatch them.’ Sherlock returned to his quick pacing and John shuddered at the coldness in his tone. John couldn't help but remember another case involving live bait, and Sherlock’s reaction then, too. ‘ _Not much cop, this caring lark.’_

_Still,_ John thought, _that’s just how he is. He cares when it matters._ John shook his head and returned to the sink, where he emptied the washing bowl and grabbed a stripy tea towel with which he proceeded to dry the tableware. 

 

Sherlock flopped heavily into his armchair and spread himself over it like a tall, bony blanket. John soon joined him, two cups of tea with a custard cream each in tow. He nudged Sherlock with his foot after he had settled. Sherlock snapped his head up, spotted the tea being proffered to him and took it, before eyeing up the biscuit and dunking it into the hot drink. As he chewed on the delicious combination of hot tea and biscuit, he watched John, who had switched the television onto what sounded like a WWII documentary. Sherlock took another sip of the tea and finished off his biscuit, still watching John. John soon cracked under the intense gaze Sherlock was giving him.

 ‘What, Sherlock?’

 ‘Harry told you something at dinner this evening and you are trying to decide if it is important to the case or not.’ John raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the dark haired man, before nodding and turning the television down a few notches. He replaced the remote on his armrest next to his saucer and untouched biscuit, and noticing Sherlock give it a sidelong glance, smirked and handed the offending item to the man, who dunked it silently in his tea. 

Sherlock piped up again as he chewed. ‘Well, seeing as you walked halfway home instead of staying on the bus it must be bothering you.’ 

 ‘How- you know, I don’t want to know.’

Sherlock smirked. John sighed. ‘It’s not just that. Harry’s on the drink again…’ Sherlock stayed silent, watching the man sitting opposite him. ‘I worry about her.’ He finally finished. 

 ‘You worry about everyone, John.’ 

 ‘Only because I have to! If I didn’t worry about you, the next case wouldn’t involve you, it would _be_ you.’

 Sherlock looked affronted. ‘I can actually survive alone, you know.’

 ‘I think mine and your versions of ‘survival’ are very different.’ John replied swiftly. Sherlock opened, and then closed, his mouth. John let his victory hang for a moment before he broke the silence.

 ‘Harry did also tell me something possibly relevant to the case, though.’ John said. ’She knew the girl we found. That Leah Reed. It’s a bit of a strenuous connection at best, but she’s the new step-daughter of Harry’s ex-wife. Harry was a bit more than shaken, as you can imagine…’ John’s voice faltered. ‘Actually _you_ probably can’t but that’s neither here nor there. It’s a connection, isn't it?’

 Sherlock nodded, his chin now resting atop his interlaced fingers. ‘The closest one we’ve uncovered yet. That’s two people who are associated with our families - your sister, and my brother. But still, why? There must be something more, something I’m missing.’ 

 John finished off his tea and put the empty mug back on his saucer. ‘Well, as much as I don’t want to admit it, it sounds like whoever this is is targeting us, and closing in quickly.’

 ‘Well, that was obvious from the start. Why else would someone cut ‘221B’ into the ones found outside of our house?’ Sherlock shrugged frustratedly. ‘There isn’t enough to trace a culprit yet, only work out their motives. We are going to have to wait for another set of hands tomorrow.’

 John grimaced and hummed in agreement before looking at his watch. ‘Blimey, it’s one in the morning. I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Sherlock.’ 

 Sherlock simply grunted in reply.

 

-

 

The next morning John was pleased to find Sherlock absent from the lounge when he entered. _Good, he slept,_ he thought as he turned towards the deserted kitchen, slippered feet making a smooth _shuff shuff_ noise over the polished floorboards. Last night John had resolved to slip him a sleeping tablet if he still hadn’t at least taken a nap. 

He boiled the kettle, the roar of the induction heater filling the space as he opened the bread bin and took out a slice of thick brown bread. He popped it into the toaster and pressed down the foot just as the door of Sherlock’s bedroom opened down the hall and the tall, skinny man emerged, hair ruffled from sleep. 

‘Morning,’ John said. Sherlock smiled at him before grabbing two mugs from the cupboard and dropping a teabag into one, and some instant coffee into the other. He poured the just-boiled water into them and slid the tea towards John, taking the coffee for himself. John spread his toast with some marmalade and then joined Sherlock in the living room, who was checking his phone. John sat in his chair. 

 ‘What?’

 ‘Lestrade didn’t text all night, and hasn’t this morning either. No hands - that’s odd.’ 

 John frowned, before turning on the television to Channel One. The BBC 6 O’Clock News was in full swing, but the main story was about David Cameron, not another finding. ‘Nothing on the news,’ he said.

 Sherlock slung his phone aside, frustrated. ‘Damn!’ 

 ‘Maybe the attacker doesn’t work on Fridays?’ John joked, and Sherlock gave him a withering look. 

 ‘This is highly illogical. It breaks the pattern.’

 ‘Maybe there wasn't supposed to be a pattern? Maybe they really have been random attacks?’

 ‘No, there’s definitely something deeper than just random attacks. They're working too hard for that. No, this is a message. It’s a game.’ 

 John left his friend thinking and went to get dressed, emerging from his bedroom a few minutes later to find Sherlock had moved himself to the sofa and was now lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. John leaned over the man until he was in Sherlock’s view. ‘We accept clients today, don’t forget. Hadn’t you better go and get dressed?’

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he sighed, before swinging himself up and away, narrowly missing head butting John in the process. A few minutes later he had repositioned himself back on the sofa, now fully dressed in his classic suit trousers and purple shirt. John left him to it, and busied himself in attempting to tidy up the place a little before the first client showed their face. Soon enough, a harrowed businesswoman rang the doorbell, and the men assumed their positions in the living room in order to listen to her story and consider accepting the case. 

 

-

 

Hours later, after a slow but steady stream of clients were interviewed, declared boring or solved on the spot by Sherlock, and then politely and apologetically ushered out by John, the men were finally free again. No texts from Lestrade had been received by either of the men, and Sherlock had become increasingly agitated throughout the day, at one point even declaring they were to go out and look for the hands themselves, which was quickly placated by John on the account that London is spread over 900 square miles.

By 5PM, Sherlock was pacing furiously again, and John was afraid that he would burn a hole in the floor and end up in Mrs Hudson’s flat below. 

‘Sherlock, stop, please. Just watching you is frustrating me.’

Sherlock looked incredulously at John, before redoubling his pace so that his body was almost a purple and black blur. 

 ‘Oh, come on, you're just doing this to spite me now.’ John said exasperatedly. ‘Look, I’m going to meet Arthur again tonight. Do you want to come with me?’ 

 Sherlock threw himself into his chair so violently it moved backwards a few inches. ‘You don’t really want me there,’ he retorted quickly. 

 ‘I do if it’ll calm you down, Sherlock. Anyway, it might be good to get you meeting more people who aren’t violent criminals.’ 

 Sherlock smirked, but shook his head. ‘No, you go. I don't do normal people.’ 

 John stood to leave. ‘Then I’ll be going now. I’m tired so I won’t be back incredibly late; I’ll bring back some Chinese for dinner, okay?’

Sherlock nodded, and John grabbed his coat from the stand, before leaving the flat. John didn’t tell Sherlock the real reason he wasn’t staying out late - he was worried that this evening might become a danger night. 

 

-

 

Sherlock soon became bored in the empty flat and resumed his pacing, before grabbing his violin, attempting to play, and then discarding the precious instrument almost as soon as he picked it up. He wandered into the kitchen, stared at the experiment spread across the table, opened and closed the fridge, boiled the kettle, grabbed his skull, and then resumed his original position in his armchair. 

He stared at John’s empty chair with it’s Union Jack cushion, it’s tea stain on the right armrest; it’s slightly fluffy edge where people brushed past it regularly. It had moved to the left slightly at some point, and had snagged the rug underneath it. A pile of the past few day’s newspapers sat on the side table. As Sherlock absently read the topmost headline upside-down, his phone buzzed. He jumped up and grabbed it, immediately opening it as he noticed it was from Lestrade:

 

_Just found another pair of hands in Grace’s Rd, Camberwell._

_Come ASAP. We already know the identity._

 

_GL_

 

Without stopping to think, Sherlock jumped up and grabbed his overclothes from the coat rack and scurried down the stairs, wrapping the long blue scarf around his neck as he stepped into the dark iciness of a winter night in London. He hailed a taxi, directed the driver, and hopped in. 

 John slid into the wooden cubicle at the bustling bar in Soho with his brimming pint of IPA, and looked at one of his oldest friends who was smiling at him over the table. ‘I still can’t quite believe you’re here, Art,’ John said.

 ‘It is a little strange still, I’ll agree with you there.’

 ‘I mean, we’ve now seen each other more times this week than we have in the last 5 years. Is this really only the second time I’ve seen you since we served together?’

 Arthur nodded and took a drink from his pint. He was a stocky man, with short, greying hair and silver stubble. He had brown eyes and a small but noticeable scar over his left eyebrow. He looked much older than his years. He held himself tightly, his back straight, his long time serving in the army having conditioned him to do so at all times, even when relaxed. ‘Do you remember the day you were shot?’

 John’s face twisted. ‘How can I forget that? That’s gonna stay with me for all my life.’ 

 Arthur smiled sympathetically and took another drink. ‘I remember, too. It still feels like it was yesterday or something. I was transferred after that, and you were discharged. Still, we survived in one piece.’

 John nodded and lifted his pint. ‘To being bloody stubborn in the face of danger.’

Their glasses clinked together in the noisy pub. 

 Sherlock paid the driver and hopped out of the cab just next to the scene of the crime. He grinned impishly at Donovan, before ducking under the police tape and striding towards Lestrade who was overseeing the investigation. Lestrade looked confused as he walked over. ‘No John?’ He asked.

 Sherlock shook his head. ‘He’s meeting an old friend in a pub. He left before you texted.’ Lestrade nodded and the two walked towards the crime scene. A tree of heaven at the end of a line of terraced houses bore the latest set of hands, hung from the same generic lead wire as the others. However there was a difference with these hands. They were still dripping blood, the red liquid running down the cold palms and dripping rhythmically onto the curb below. Sherlock pulled out his little magnifying glass and began to inspect them.

 Lestrade piped up. ‘We’ve already done a fingerprint analysis on these ones, and they came up instantly. They’re from a man called Jake Dollison. He served in Afghanistan and recently came back from his last deployment in Helmand Provence. He was awarded the Military Cross for gallantry a few weeks ago.’ Lestrade shook his head. ‘What kind of twisted bastard kills a man who fought for Queen and Country?’

 Sherlock looked at Lestrade. ‘All kinds of people.’ He returned to the hands. ‘This man was a chain smoker, single, suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He-‘ Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. Lestrade marked his expression.

 ‘You okay, Sherlock?’

Sherlock didn’t reply, instead pocketing his magnifying glass and pulling out his phone. He navigated quickly and pressed the phone to his ear, his face drawn.

‘Sherlock, what’s going on?’ Lestrade asked, worried now.

 ‘John isn’t answering.’

 ‘You said he was at the pub with his old mate, didn’t you?’

 Sherlock turned to Lestrade. ‘I know the link. It’s John.’

 Lestrade looked incredulous. ‘You think John’s doing this?’ 

 ‘No, you imbecile! John is the link! John is what connects these!’ He gestured wildly at the dripping appendages in front of them. ‘I think John is in danger, right now.’

 Lestrade immediately jumped into action, getting into his police car with Sherlock in the back and they sped, sirens ablaze, through the rush hour traffic and congestion to Baker Street. Each time Sherlock called John in the back of the car, a little spark of hope would erupt inside of him, and each time he failed to answer, it would die like a candle being extinguished. As soon as they arrived Sherlock practically ran up the steps to 221B and quickly scanned the room. There was no immediate change present, so he stopped and listened, holding out a hand to silence Lestrade as he came up the stairs into the flat.

 

The place was completely empty, and silent as a grave.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So here it is! My first story on this site and also my verst Sherlock fic. I hope you enjoy and carry on reading! (When I post…)
> 
> Please follow!


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